“I tell you, you must wait a little-by-and-by, is Monkhouse," said the gentleman, comforting when I have begun to earn money They laughed. "We "No, no," said Mr. Hardy, smiling. know what that means. Here, let us have something in hand. Four hundred, three, two, one?" Severne shook his head. "I can't I can't, indeed. I have so many claims." "Upon my word," said Mr. Payne, "this looks very bad. Have you no proposal to make?" What could our unhappy Severne propose? What can a poor man propose? After much discussion it was arranged that a little money was to be put "down," and that for the rest the firm were to take bills, at a short date. It was with a hanging head and downcast eyes that Severne passed through the languid young men, who looked at him askance, and understood the whole situation. But they were quite respectful, and one as usual having a reverence for a gentleman in adversity, held the door open to let him out. But at that moment came bounding up the steps Selby and Ridley, and behind them Mr. Monkhouse, member for a little borough. Selby looked grave as he saw him. He knew of his friend's reverses, but had been away, and had not learned that he was at all "pressed." He was one of those who assumed in short that every one in the world can at least pay for breakfasts and dinners, and "put good clothes on their backs." Credit at a tailor's is the last familiar that abandons us. "My dear fellow," he said, "I am so glad. Come in with me here; I want to talk to you." Severne rather shook himself free. His face was hot and glowing. the partners. "Here, give me a light, Payne, or some of your fellows. I always told you so. I never knew an expectant that wasn't hit or bit. Why, I was an expectant myself, on an old aunt -as tough-and stiff a bit of old grizzle as ever hung on in the world after her time. She wouldn't die. The melons and sweets she got regularly out of me; and at the end, after all, I was bit—I was.” Mr. Payne told the story in all its details in a very injured way. The other partners stood about, and furnished more details of this nefarious conduct. "I would'nt 'ave believed it, sir," said Mr. Payne, all but holding up his hands. "Such ingratitude; a gent of his bringing up, too; and to come to us so cool." "Quite right, Payne," said Mr. Monkhouse. "Here, a light again, will you? Nothing lights nowadays." One of the languid young men came gliding up. "Mr. Payne, sir, there's Lord John in an 'ansom at the door, about that coat! I told him it can't be done till four o'clock. Will you see him, sir?" Lord John appeared at the door himself. 'Well, how often am I to come? What d'ye mean, Payne ?-sending, sending; I'm sick of it. I won't put up with it. It's not the way to treat me. Four o'clock yesterday this fellow swore on his soul." "I can't, now," he said. "Let me go. I have off on the spot, Lord John." The truth was his business. Don't keep me.' Business," cried Ridley, "that's good. Business with old Payne! Come in, Severne, my friend. Choose me a pair of knickers; your taste is undeniable ;" and he put his arm in his. "Don't worry," said Severne, shaking himself free. "I tell you I have business. You can choose your clothes for yourself by this time;" and he hurried off. "What on earth is wrong with him?" said Ridley, in amazement. Then, with sudden warmth, "What does he mean by speaking in that way to me?" Mr. Monkhouse, a tall, elderly, red-faced man, very sardonic in manner, looked after him, and said, slowly Lordship was not regarded with much respect in the house-giving very poor orders-and being slack in payment. "Bosh. Hollo, Monkhouse!" said Lord John, turning sharply on him; "that's you? What's this old women's gathering here? what are you all hatching together?" 'Egad, you should have been here five minutes ago," said Mr. Monkhouse, leaning leisurely against the counter with folded arms, and closing his eyes to enjoy his cigar; "we had a poor broken devil here whining for mercy to Shylock there. Of course he got it, I needn't tell you." "That's nothing new,” said Lord John. "And who was this, now?" Then all went off into an account of the story. "I tell you what-our friend Payne has been Mr. Payne affected confidence. He wouldn't say, sending him to school." but all might come straight again—a declaration that made Lord John roar again; but he listened with the greatest eagerness. They went in. In a few minutes the three gentlemen had it "all out of Payne;" the languid young men whispering at the recital, but apparently in business. "Egad! I always said we'd have something of the kind met him again this year at Digby's, and "You'll be hit, my friend, as sure as my name his irs were sickening. Oh, Payne, you'll never get tuppence of your money. I know the whole stock. Not tuppence, sir; make up your mind to that on the spot, sir. I have reason to know it. Here, Payne. This way a moment; about that coat?" Lord John indeed did presently come out very brilliant and stimulated, and in much better spirits than when he entered. "Poor Payne," he said, in great enjoyment:" "mind, you won't get tuppence off that feller. I Mr. Monkhouse pointed with his stick after tell you so. I am much better now. I feel as if him. "I'll bet you he's goin' to stick the tailor for brandy. He always does it reg'lar. All that about the coat and four o'clock, a lie; just for an excuse, you know, to come here. I wonder he hasn't a corner cupboard in his cab." you had put a stitch in me. That unlucky devilI knew he'd stick his arm into the wrong sleeve at last. There's a metaphor for you from your own trade." And his Lordship went off in great good humour. 66 PUNCH, BROTHERS, PUNCH.* [From "The Stolen White Elephant." BY MARK TWAIN.] Punch, brothers! punch with care! I came across these jingling rhymes in a newspaper, a little while ago, and read them a couple of times. They took instant and entire possession of me. All through breakfast they went waltzing through my brain; and when, at last, I rolled up my napkin, I could not tell whether I had eaten anything or not. I had carefully laid out my day's work the day before-a thrilling tragedy in the novel which I am writing. I went to my den to begin my deed of blood. I took up my pen, but all I could get it to say was, "Punch in the presence of the passenjare." I fought hard for an hour, but it was useless. My head kept humming, A blue trip slip for an eight-cent fare, a buff trip slip for a six-cent fare," and so on, and so on, without peace or respite. The day's work was ruined -I could see that plainly enough. I gave up and drifted down town, and presently discovered that my feet were keeping time to that relentless jingle. When I could stand it no longer I altered my step. But it did no good; those rhymes accommodated themselves to the new step, and went on harassing me just as before. I returned home, and suffered all the afternoon; suffered all through an unconscious and unrefreshing dinner; suffered, and cried, and jingled all through the evening; went to bed and rolled, tossed, and jingled right along, the same as ever; got up at midnight frantic, and tried to read; but there was nothing visible upon the whirling page except "Punch! punch in the presence of the passenjare." By sunrise I was out of my mind, and everybody marvelled and was distressed at the idiotic burden of my ravings "Punch! oh, punch! punch in the presence of the passenjare!" to Two days later, on Saturday morning, I arose, a tottering wreck, and went forth to fulfil an engagement with a valued friend, the Rev. Mr. walk to the Talcott Tower, ten miles distant. He stared at me, but asked no questions. We started. Mr. talked, talked, talked-as is his wont. I said nothing; I heard nothing. At the end of a mile, Mr. said "Mark, are you sick? I never saw a man look so haggard and worn and absent-minded. Say something; do!" Drearily, without enthusiasm, I said: "Punch, brothers, punch with care! Punch in the presence of the passenjare!" My friend eyed me blankly, looked perplexed, then said "I do not think I get your drift, Mark. There does not seem to be any relevancy in what you have said, certainly nothing sad; and yet-maybe it was the way you said the words--I never heard anything that sounded so pathetic. What is But I heard no more. I was already far away with my pitiless, heart-breaking "blue trip slip for an eight-cent fare, buff trip slip for a six-cent fare, pink trip slip for a three-cent fare; punch in the presence of the passenjare." I do not know what occurred during the other nine miles. However, all of a sudden Mr. laid his hand on my shoulder and shouted "Oh, wake up! wake up! wake up! Don't sleep all day! Here we are at the Tower, man! I have talked myself deaf and dumb and blind, and never got a response. Just look at this magnificent autumn landscape! Look at it! look at it! Feast your eyes on it! You have travelled; you have seen boasted landscapes elsewhere. Come, now, deliver an honest opinion. What do you say to this?" I sighed wearily, and murmured"A buff trip slip for a six-cent fare, a pink trip slip for a three-cent fare, punch in the presence of the passenjare!" Rev. Mr. stood there, very grave, full of concern, apparently, and looked long at me; then he said "Mark, there is something about this that I cannot understand. Those are about the same words you said before; there does not seem to be anything in them, and yet they nearly break my By permission of Messrs. Chatto and Windus. heart when you say them. Punch in the-how is must go mad if I sat there any longer; so I unit they go?" I began at the beginning and repeated all the lines. My friend's face lighted with interest. He said "Why, what a captivating jingle it is! It is almost music. It flows along so nicely. I have nearly caught the rhymes myself. Say them over just once more, and then I'll have them, sure.' I said them over. Then Mr. said them. He made one little mistake, which I corrected. The next time and the next he got them right. Now a great burden seemed to tumble from my shoulders. That torturing jingle departed out of my brain, and a grateful sense of rest and peace descended upon me. I was light-hearted enough to sing; and I did sing for half an hour, straight along, as we went jogging homeward. Then my freed tongue found blessed speech again, and the pent talk of many a weary hour began to gush and flow. It flowed on and on, joyously, jubilantly, until the fountain was empty and dry. As I wrung my friend's hand at parting, I said "Haven't we had a royal good time! But now I remember, you haven't said a word for two hours. Come, come, out with something!" The Rev. Mr. turned a lack-lustre eye upon me, drew a deep sigh, and said, without animation, without apparent consciousness"Punch, brothers, punch with care! Punch in the presence of the passenjare!" A pang shot through me as I said to myself, "Poor fellow, poor fellow! he has got it, now." I did not see Mr. for two or three days after that. Then, on Tuesday evening, he staggered into my presence and sank dejectedly into a seat. He was pale, worn; he was a wreck. He lifted his faded eyes to my face and said— dressed and went to bed. I stretched myself out in my berth, and—well, you know what the result was. The thing went right along, just the same. 'Clack-clack-clack, a blue trip slip, clack-clackclack, for an eight-cent fare; clack-clack-clack, a buff trip slip, clack-clack-clack, for a six-cent fare, and so on, and so on, and so on-punch, in the presence of the passenjare!' Sleep? Not a single wink! I was almost a lunatic when I got to Boston. Don't ask me about the funeral. I did the best I could, but every solemn individual sentence was meshed and tangled and woven in and out with 'Punch, brothers, punch with care, punch in the presence of the passenjare.' And the most distressing thing was that my delivery dropped into the undulating rhythm of those pulsing rhymes, and I could actually catch absentminded people nodding time to the swing of it with their stupid heads. And, Mark, you may believe it or not, but before I got through, the entire assemblage were placidly bobbing their heads in solemn unison, mourners, undertaker, and all. The moment I had finished, I fled to the anteroom in a state bordering on frenzy. Of course it would be my luck to find a sorrowing and aged maiden aunt of the deceased there, who had arrived from Springfield too late to get into the church. She began to sob, and said— "Oh, oh, he is gone, he is gone, and I didn't see him before he died!' "Yes!' I said, 'he is gone, he is gone, he is gone-oh, will this suffering never cease!' "You loved him, then! Oh, you too loved him!' "Loved him! Loved who?' 666 "Why, my poor George! my poor nephew!' "Oh-him! Yes-oh, yes, yes. Certainlycertainly. Punch-punch-oh, this misery will kill me!' "Bless you! bless you, sir, for these sweet words! I, too, suffer in this dear loss. Were you present during his last moments?' "Yes! I-whose last moments?' 666 "Yes! Oh, yes-yes-yes! I suppose so, I think so, I don't know! Oh, certainly-I was there I was there!' "Oh, what a privilege! what a precious privilege! And his last words-oh, tell me, tell me his last words! What did he say?' "Ah, Mark, it was a ruinous investment that I made in those heartless rhymes. They have ridden me like a nightmare, day and night, hour after hour, to this very moment. Since I saw you I have suffered the torments of the lost. Saturday evening I had a sudden call, by telegraph, and took the night train for Boston. The occasion was the death of a valued old friend who had requested that I should preach his funeral sermon. I took my seat in the cars and set myself to framing the discourse. But I never got beyond the opening paragraph; for then the train started and the car-wheels began their 'clack, clack- "He said-he said-oh, my head, my head, my clack-clack-clack! clack, clack clack-clack-head! He said-he said he never said anything clack!' and right away those odious rhymes fitted but 'Punch, punch, punch in the presence of the themselves to that accompaniment. For an hour passenjare!' Oh, leave me, madam! In the name I sat there and set a syllable of those rhymes to of all that is generous, leave me to my madness, every separate and distinct clack the car-wheels my misery, my despair!—a buff trip slip for a sixmade. Why, I was as fagged out, then, as if I cent fare, a pink trip slip for a three-cent farehad been chopping wood all day. My skull was endurance can no further go!-PUNCH in the splitting with headache. It seemed to me that I presence of the passenjare!'" 666 |